<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Muffin Method by tenpointson</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29726583">The Muffin Method</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenpointson/pseuds/tenpointson'>tenpointson</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Calamity is Calling [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Legend of Zelda &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, BAMF characters that deserve more story, Blood Magic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Excerpts, Here is Gathered Hyrule's Bloody History of Greed and Hatred, Homophobia, Hylian Culture, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Prequel, Prostitution, Racism, Recreational Drug Use, Sheikah Culture, Side Story, Survival Sex Work, Violence, attempted genocide, conversion therapy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:40:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,868</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29726583</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenpointson/pseuds/tenpointson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>More tangents from The Calamity is Calling Story-line, this time all prequels and side characters that get to show us what happened before Of Cake and Calamity started. None of this happens at the same time as The Calamity is Calling - though both Link and Sheik reference events told within - it's all backstory and world-building, and will be updated when I don't quite have the next chapter of the main story ready to post when Friday nights roll around.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Calamity is Calling [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1061117</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. To Build a Kingdom of Light (Impa)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Yoooooooooo! You're here! Ready for some secondary and tertiary character focused tangentially related backstory to an already massive AU?<br/>Yes? You're in luck!<br/>No? Glad you could join us!<br/>WTF? Read and find out!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Impa has recently been declared Grand Master of the Warrior Branch of Sheikah living in Hyrule, and charged with the training of hundreds of surrendered, abandoned, orphaned, kidnapped, and sometimes outright purchased children, and takes place a few months short of 19 years before Of Cake and Calamity starts.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: references to genocidal government policy<br/>CW: alcohol as a coping mechanism, racism, discrimination, insufficient child care, national politics, power exchanges, blood-letting for magical purposes, loss of language, loss of culture<br/>As always, if I miss a content or trigger warning, please poke me and I will update ASAP!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If it is possible to age a day for every night I must burn my candle at both ends, I do believe I have missed my mid-life crisis and descended into crotchety old haggardness with as much grace as can be expected. I don’t <em>look</em> a day over thirty. I can run laps around every single recruit for the Guard, and then run laps around their trainers. Easily…and then go for a friendly debate with foreign heads of state over lunch, and do it again in the afternoon. I am a strong, intelligent, beautiful, powerful woman in the prime of her life.</p><p>Yet I feel <em>old</em>, and firmly blame the sensation on the vim and vigor of Eran’s <em>esclavin</em> brats running over every challenge put before them without the grace to so much as stumble. Or slow down. Or <em>dodge</em>. Including things that weren’t intended as challenges in the first place. Then making their own challenges, much to the dismay of more than one staff member, far too many of the nobility, and now the King himself.</p><p>They are, to a one, <em>brats</em>. Cute, but <em>brats</em>, and it seems like it was only yesterday they were adorable. Toddlers, a week before that. Babies, a month ago.</p><p>Thank the Sweet Maiden Hylia my hair can’t be any more silver than what gilt strands I was born with, or each one of the nearly forty darling, precocious boys would be able to <em>tell</em>. <em>Bedstemor </em>indeed. <em>Emor</em> is closer, though – since they will be speaking the language of the Royal Family once they’ve left the Training Hall – the Hyrulean <em>Auntie</em> would be more appropriate. The girls can’t yet escape their cribs or their nurses, and remain sweet-smelling potato-shaped bundles of joy…but the boys have earned individual names. <em>Earned</em> the collective name of brats, as well.</p><p><em>Bedstemor. </em>Faugh!</p><p>The King’s consternation has me too wound up to sleep without help, but I don’t want to call on any of the Guards for a spar. I’ll just…find some other distraction within my own domain. One suitable for a woman of my newest rank. The library seems like a good place to start, and my predecessor’s chair is quite well-padded indeed. Good for my old bones. <em>Old</em>!</p><p>Damn <em>brats</em>.</p><p>At least they won’t be able to intrude on my entertainment this evening. Even Armes – the most daring of the lot – wouldn’t <em>dare</em>. Not after getting caught with that <em>last</em> stunt. The cuccos may never recover. No, they should all be safely in their beds, and so a good cup of tea, a comfortable chair, and some light reading is just what I need to unwind. Fantasy, yes. Something brainless and formulaic, with no arrogant politicians asking for the impolite or merely impossible, and definitely no inquisitive red eyes and somehow filthy little hands reaching just over my knees and asking questions I don’t know how to answer. Something…trite. Yes. That will do nicely.</p><p>“Grand Master, there is a…<em>matter</em>…that requires your attention.” Mrs. Marie whispers through the Gossip, just as I was nearing the end of my novel. Swashbuckling pirates and battles on the high seas over not gold and jewels, but the infinitely more precious beating heart of an attractive enemy turned lover. Complete with torn bodices and improbable physicality without potions, items, or the extensive use of highly restricted magic. An indulgence, yes, and one I can easily set aside.</p><p>“Has Olkin shared what he and Numar were giggling about with the rest?” I have my suspicions, given what section of the library he’s been loitering in.</p><p>“No. Well, yes, but that’s not…it’s simply an ancient Gerudo swear word, Grand Master. Nothing of import if one is older than ten.” She dismisses. Given that the entire cohort of Eran’s <em>esclavin</em> are five, five and a half at best, I expect to be hearing it slip out in conversation regularly for the next few weeks, then.</p><p>Perhaps the failed negotiations with Chiefs Danda and Barriara weren’t a complete disaster, if it keeps them from attending the Solstice celebration. With the boys beginning to accompany Prince Eran publically, avoiding further diplomatic incidents on the High Holy Days seems prudent. Marie is the type that would fret overmuch in such regards, but she is not disturbing my evening over the linguistic tendencies of children. For her to come through the Gossip, it must be something more concerning than the potential for an impolite word uttered in an impolitic setting.</p><p>“I…think it best you See my Truth yourself, Grand Master.” Marie presses, and opens her eyes for my Seeing.</p><p>Settling further into my armchair, I slice my thumb on one of my daggers and smear the face of my Gossip Stone for stability. This late in the day, this far in the Palace Grounds, there is no sun to illuminate the face of the spell-bound tool, and I must provide a better grounding than most to avoid the snare-traps and sight-wards set and reset with regular irregularity as a matter of national security. To observe the bedchambers of thirty-nine five year olds who should be fast asleep and unobserved by any adult aside from their keepers.</p><p>They are not. Not all of them. Nor does the identity of the particular ones that are awake surprise me in the least.</p><p>The most sensitive and intelligent boys in a gathering of the most sensitive, intelligent, and physically robust boys of their year mates are also the ones that have – unsurprisingly – shown the most potential to be Bound with the chains of magic and affection and duty to a lifetime of servitude and a death not of their own choosing. To become the Sheik. A living blood sacrifice of our very best, reaped in Hylia’s name and laid at the feet of Her children. I know precisely what my most ancient ancestor would think of <em>that</em>.  </p><p>Yet it was the only way to our recent ancestors could think of to keep my people from being wiped off the face of the earth. When faced with the choice of reviving an ancient, barely remembered barbaric tradition and sending out our best, or having our people become a barely remembered tradition as a whole, they made the only choice they could.</p><p>That does not mean I am not angry, that I will not fight for my people with everything that I have and am…only that I understand.</p><p>It falls to me to live with the choices my ancestors made, and to do my best for those that will come after me.</p><p>It has been more than a year since we removed the bars on the boy’s cribs, and two days since all thirty-nine were put to the first testing. Seven failed to kill, and are in the process of being sent back to the parents that want them, or fostered out if they are alone. Nineteen were injured and must be healed, first, before they too are released. Of the twenty that remain, I anticipate five will fail the second test, and there are already wagers spreading in that regard. The third test will show who will move on to the Goddesses’ Trials, and who will be free to live their own lives.</p><p>Each and every one of the boys I anticipate that I must submit to the Bond is awake, shifting in their nightgowns and whispering to each other in the dark. Not that the dark has ever stopped a Sheikah from moving as needed, and they are Sheikah. Every last one.</p><p>“<em>Min…min seouv sisa’an duar tila, konlega?”</em> The very youngest – though not the smallest – of the <em>esclavin</em> boys asks, his piping treble voice soft and shaking as I hone my ties in the Gossip for better clarity with a fresh spill. The ones that are asleep fade from the prismatic tethering, while the ones that are actively alert rise to the surface like bubbles through murky water.</p><p>“What are they saying?” Mrs. Marie asked, concern spiking every shade coloring her presence. I forgot that, though she teaches languages and art to the boys, she only speaks what are considered living languages. Not Middle Hyrulean, even though it is the only language left to us after it was used to destroy our own. The laws banning the use of the Sheikah tongue still linger on the books, though the last native speaker died long before my mother was born. Without anyone knowing how it sounded, taking the time to strike that law would be a wasteful expenditure of the tax-payer’s rupees.</p><p>Not as wasteful as the <em>esclavin </em>tradition itself, but there are things I can do about <em>that</em>…hopefully in time for the living, breathing results of that tradition to actually have lives to live.</p><p>“He is simply requesting that one of his brothers allow him to rest with them, in their arms.” I translate for her, and watch their collective and individual responses. Who leads, who comforts, who responds, who takes advantage, who ignores, and who denies. More and better proof than the tests and Trials of which one will serve Prince Eran not only well, but with his whole heart. Willingly. Because he wants to. Not because he was made to.</p><p>Not that any of them have that choice, never knowing anything else.</p><p>Still, it is the best of my bad options. That at the very least, there is love.</p><p>“<em>Ya.” </em>Round faced and reed slender, the youngling with coastal coloring and eyes like embers in the night responds first, not only comforting the other boy but taking his own blanket and moving to join the youngest on his own bed where he is more comfortable. The motion starts a landslide of little bodies and little legs shifting and stirring until the beds are sleeping two and three apiece, piled high with blankets and pillows and too serious little boys coming to terms with their first kills.</p><p>Even if it was a monster – and a simple-minded, easily anticipated Chu-chu that needs no strategy to attend – it is still the first time they have brought death with their own hands. It will not be the last, though I may pray to any Goddess that will listen for the blood they spill to remain monstrous in nature. That it will never come to raising their hand against a person, even in defence of their own lives. For the one that is to become the Sheik, that by necessity includes in defence of Prince Eran. I can only hope…</p><p>…but alas, I know I am a fool.</p><p>Not so much a fool that I am unaware of the fact, but a fool none the less. A greater fool for allowing the emotional turmoil of the most sensitive and intelligent boys of their generation upset my own control. Not so much a fool as to let anyone know. <em>That </em>is a perceived weakness that will undo all the work I’ve done up until this point. Speaking of attrition and prevention and fiscal responsibility and wasting resources as though the numbers are nothing more than marks on a ledger.</p><p><em>Faugh</em>.</p><p>Still. It must be done. Duty calls, Impa. Duty always calls.</p><p>Making a quick note of the exchange and the order of the <em>esclavin</em>’s responses, I let go of Mrs. Marie’s mind’s eye, and let the cool magic of the Gossip repair the cut on my hand as it consumed my blood before going for a walk.</p><p>We two were not the only ones watching the boys in their midnight assignations, ergo, I have a perimeter to check and wards to reinforce before I can return to the pages of my mind-numbing formulaic fantasy romance, perhaps with a drink in hand. For the sake of the reality I am to bring about, the future of these small ones whom I watch, I must learn to forget how to dream.</p><p>Then, maybe, I can sleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As you can probably tell, these chapters are slightly shorter in general compared to the main story chapters, which is why I can guarantee that there will be an update of SOME kind every second Friday. So far, I have some things from the POV of Impa Palmorae (Impa, multiple Zelda games), Kahti Skolkeeta (Captain Keeta, Majora's Mask), and Tetra Anne Zelda Hyrule (Zelda, literally every Zelda game ever, Wind Waker).<br/>Hopefully they won't have to be posted until they are either super relevant to the current storyline, or after the whole thing is done, since they ARE filler. But like, juicy filler. Not drywall filler. At least, I hope not drywall. Stuff's nasty to eat. So, uh, yeah.<br/>I am still hoping to get Chapter 3 of Above Hoarded Gold up tonight, but we'll see how my arm holds up.<br/>As always, clicks, kudos, and comments are love &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. To Extinguish (Impa)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>POV Impa from The Calamity is Calling, a few years after chapter one</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW: off-screen character death, alcohol as a coping mechanism and self-medicating, grief, children in pain/with suicidal intent</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“…received word from the Tabantha Range Central Hospital’s director that his Highness, crown Prince Eran George Henry Hyrule, has been confirmed dead as a result of being caught in an avalanche yesterday. He was 16 years old. A spokesperson for the Royal Family has asked for privacy in their time of grief. There will be a memorial service held, with details to be announced at a later date.”</p><p>Yesterday.</p><p>Was it only yesterday? It seems like it should be a week gone by already.</p><p>I’m thankful that someone thought to cover the lad with a sheet for the cameras. Identifying the remains was difficult enough for me, and I’ve got an iron stomach and a heart of stone if you’re to believe the few pitiable souls who have had the misfortune to call themselves my lovers. Not that there have been many, or that they’ve lasted long beyond the bedding. Something about the allure of being the frigid Spook Queen’s consort fading once they discover I’m just like any other woman of rank and power despite – <em>officially</em> – having neither.</p><p>Always aware of the political machinations behind every overture and pressed suit.</p><p>At least the last one was fun, though I do wish he could have kept up.</p><p>Turning off the television and the review of Prince Eran’s public life, I decide to indulge my aching heart just a little in hopes that the harsh burn of cheap whiskey will soothe me enough to sleep, knowing the sight of that mangled corpse and the lingering signs of struggle and pain will haunt me for the rest of my life.</p><p>He was so damn young. Too young. Too young to drive without a chaperone. Too young to drink. Too young to appreciate the sex he and that lovely girl were working towards having. Too young to even Bond with one of the boys in the Training Hall…though I’m selfishly more than a bit pleased by that. All that a successful Bond would have done is prolonged the agony of his death, and killed another too young boy besides…though I’m one of a very select few that would weigh <em>that</em> life equal to that of his royal Highness’. How could I not?</p><p>Rozel. Kaya. Zuta.</p><p>My <em>boys</em>. With all the men in my life seeking adventure, conquest, or trophies, children are a half-forgotten dream that I had to give up years ago. The <em>esclavin</em> children – like the whiskey – soothe that gut-rot, but still burn inside in a different way. Hilda’s set are starting to level out, and Tetra’s girls are still just unruly little girls, but Eran’s…oh, Eran’s last three are starting to shine like the jewels they are, the intense pressure and careful faceting revealing the diamonds under the dirt.</p><p>Were. They <em>were</em> starting to shine.</p><p>What a Goddess-damned fucking <em>waste</em>.</p><p>Pouring myself another shot – needing the numbing that such high proofs bring and excuse to gasp and let my eyes water – cancelling my meeting with the Sage of Shadows tomorrow morning, and finding my way to my lonely, empty bed can’t take my mind away from the half-frozen, mangled <em>thing</em> that was all that was left of my Prince…but I couldn’t let her Majesty see her first-born like that. I couldn’t. It would have killed her, with her health as fragile as it is.</p><p>And Hyrule <em>needs</em> the protection afforded by the Goddesses’ Relic right now more than ever.  She must needs begin Hilda’s training as soon as possible, and I must adapt the training of the princess’ <em>esclavin</em> to be that of the future monarch rather than as merely another member of the Royal line. The girls are a decent lot, adequate for as quiet a life as a royal can have, but there aren’t any truly exceptional ones in the bunch.</p><p>Good Lady Hylia. I <em>told</em> his Majesty that we needed as thorough a Search – as well as all the associated funding – for Hilda’s incumbent Sheik as we did for Eran’s. Overconfident, insular bastard. Now look where that arrogance has gotten us.</p><p>Lorulean soldiers on our south-western border, conducting “practice” maneuvers that take them further and further into the disputed areas and closer towards the Barrier each time. Terminian debt accrual that will take decades to pay off. Holodrian-style infotainment spreading fascist misinformation through every single media platform. Even <em>one</em> of those international issues should be of at least <em>some </em>concern…and he thinks of vacationing in Holodrum, and turning over more of our raw resources to Termina, while the calls for aid from the Gerudo Desert grow weaker by the day as they lose soldiers and land and no one from the Capital answers.  </p><p>Within Hyrule itself lie further problems, with <em>simple </em>– if less profitable – solutions. There are the Goron labor disputes as pay is cut and regulations ignored. Gerudo mafia freely roaming the sands and plundering all travelers in retaliation for the ignored treaties and trade deals that keep their families fed. Kokiri protests over clear-cut logging taking their homes without warning or recompense. Banishment, or a lifetime of imprisonment of the Sheikah that do not submit to the numbering and identification system, the proscription of our inherent magic, and the converters.</p><p>At least the Zora are still amiable to regular parlay, though I have to wonder if their long lives give them a perspective the other races lack, my own included. They seem amused by His Royal Asshat’s ill managed arrogance, which is only to the good. Too many of my…of <em>our…</em>peoples rely on clean water and Zoran trade routes for him to risk offending Queen Kodah like he has the Rito Elders. If he’s not careful, we’re headed right towards another bloody Calamity.</p><p>Oh, by the hundred little gods…Eran is <em>dead</em>, and with him go some of the brightest and most promising children of his generation, had they only had the chance. Pipit Bolson would have made a fine general. Aaron Volga is shaping up to be a master of the lance. Karane, Cobal, Phoeni...so much potential for one of the finest courts Hyrule has ever seen, gone. <em>Gone</em>! And my <em>boys</em>. My poor boys. What are they to do now that their intended <em>domine</em> is dead?</p><p>Screw the shot glass, the bottle works just fine.</p><p>The burn helps numb my aching heart enough to focus. To think instead of rail against the terrible fate they have been met with. Zuta…Zuta should be fine, as long as Sir Dorian can place him in a family that will support his love of dance. Performance is a hard life, but he has both the talent and the drive to be successful as long as his potential is nurtured. He’s a good boy, and the creative expression dance affords him should help with the grief that is sure to have overcome them all right now. The grief that has overcome a nation, overcome…</p><p>Drown it out, Impa. Whiskey and water. You don’t want a headache tomorrow, as much as you need to get good and clouded now. Don’t forget the water. Or the whiskey.</p><p>Or Eran. Goddess <em>damn</em> it all.</p><p>Rozel…would make an excellent intelligence agent. Of all of them, his mastery of the Shadows is unsurpassed. Yes, he’s only twelve, but with the right trainer, without the restraints of four decades of bigoted Hyrulean purity laws, he could be magnificent. Smart, gregarious, charming. If Cheri will take on his education…I’ll call her tomorrow, through the proper channels. The Gossip doesn’t need to be exposed to my drunken sorrow, and as long as everything is official, we should both be able to keep our hard won positions.</p><p>Protect what is left of our people, even if we disagree on methodology.</p><p>Nayru, grant me the Wisdom to see what must be done, how to create change from within, and sorry for neglecting Your altar…but I need Your help with one who is well on his way to becoming one of Yours.</p><p>Goddesses…<em>Kaya</em>. In any other age, that prodigious child would already be deep in training as the future Sage of Shadow and leader of our people, not an enslaved sacrifice to the glory of Hylia’s line. Not abandoned – unwanted – at the hospital where he was born, only to be snatched up by the <em>esclavin </em>Search for his aetheric fortitude and physical health. Not tied to a Prince simply to shield him from death, but as an equal, and a friend.</p><p>…perhaps even a lover. While Eran himself showed next to no signs of being violet <em>or</em> ivy, Kaya certainly has. Puberty will reveal the truth in the next few years, but I’m almost certain that he is both entirely violet and exclusively so. The sheer strength of that boy’s magic, combined with his singular devotion and – dare I say it, love – for Eran has put him far ahead of the other two’s ability to Bond. I haven’t had to enhance or supplement the wreathing spell-work at all, and it’s nearly complete. That poor child.</p><p>When did I empty my bottle? Not that it matters over much, but I really don’t want to have to get another, and there’s no way I can sleep just yet thinking of the pain that Kaya must be in right now. Rozel and Zuta too. My poor, poor boys.</p><p>…oh Farore Bless, <em>it was nearly complete</em>.  </p><p>It’s a sobering realization, and one that briskly knocks my hard-won whiskey cloud away.</p><p>The pall of grief over the Palace is so profound no one says anything about my state of undress as I run from my apartments, behind the main complex, and through the Queen’s pleasure gardens to the Training Hall where the three remaining <em>esclavin</em> boys are kept. Separate. Excluded, though their lives are as entwined with the Royal Family as any other servant, if not more so. With the rest of the entertainment. The <em>spectacle</em>. The Royal Family’s living puppets…</p><p>I could almost hate them for it, but then I would be forsaking generations immemorial in the same breath. We are <em>Sheikah</em>, with all that entails. I will do what I can to preserve that legacy, even if it costs me more than I thought possible. I swore I would give anything.</p><p>I didn’t expect anything to mean <em>my boys.</em></p><p>The Training Hall is small, and quiet, an unassuming building nearly hidden amidst the shadows and the grandeur of the rest of the palace. The entrance is dark, boots and scarves and mitts and coats neatly hidden away in cupboards meant to hold a squadron’s worth. The main hall empty and still, no signs of the regular activities that take up the boy’s day having occurred.</p><p>Including meals. A fine layer of dust lays over the tablecloth and the chairs both, a single set of scuff marks marring the high polish of the wooden floors. Where are they?</p><p>Have they been abandoned already, now that they are of no further use?</p><p>I wouldn’t be surprised.</p><p>Following the scuffs on the flooring too small for an adult to have left behind, I find the miniature library and study hall empty. Cold. So too their bedroom, the sheets and blankets of their shared bed pressed to crisp perfection. The Sealed Circle is dormant. The pells and weights still and heavy in their silence. Was it only yesterday that I watched over their training with their chosen weapons? Went to my chambers to bathe and prepare for supper? Listened to the herald wail his message of disaster and death to the court?</p><p>Yes. Yes, it was yesterday. The boys were here. They would have gone to bathe as well, and then groom and dress for their evening meal. An hour of review and study, after, since Eran was elsewhere, then unstructured personal time until bed. Their presence lingers everywhere here, the only home they have known for all their lives. The dust tells me there have been no meals – no movement – for at least a day, which gives me a starting point in my search.</p><p>I find them in the locker room. All three of them, laying on the floor…but swaddled in throw blankets and towels and bound up together in a pile. Pale and tan and dark. So very small, these children that I will never have, even though they are mine.</p><p>So frighteningly still.</p><p>My <em>boys</em>! My…</p><p>“Grand Master Impa?” Rozel croaks from the middle of the mound, throat rough from the weeping he has done. Eyes swollen and red. Skin tight and nearly transparent. “Is that you?”</p><p>“Yes, child.” I croak in return, and clear my throat to get rid of the burr in my voice. If he’s so poorly off that he doesn’t recognize my signature weaving, then other familiar patterns will help him balance himself. “What happened here?”</p><p>“Eran’s…dead, isn’t he?” The boy sniffles, sitting up to stare through me, his normally bright gaze dull and unseeing. “I can’t…I can’t feel him at all.”</p><p>“Yes.” No comforting lies here. It would be a betrayal of every principle these children have ever known.  “He was caught in an avalanche over the black diamond slopes of Cold Snap Hollow. They recovered his body this morning.”</p><p>“I see.”</p><p>“What happened after I left you, Rozel?” I prod, hoping that the motion beneath the blanket to his left is one of the other boys stirring of their own volition and not due to decomposition. They’re so very small, and so still that Rozel’s own colors obscure theirs, the blankets containing and distributing all warmth. I can’t See. “Report.”</p><p>I can’t tell if either of them still live.</p><p>“Zuta managed to pin Kaya, which pleased Lord Agahnim greatly, for the wager was double that of last week. He and Lord Bolson went to discuss the match over cordials, and we returned to the infirmary for tending and a strengthening massage. Zuta had some bruising, and I a light sprain on my left wrist that were corrected expediently.” Though he does not stand, the familiar rhythm of chronological reporting has Rozel sitting up a little stronger…and a dark-skinned hand emerging from the blankets to chase after the one he holds at his side in their proper posture.</p><p>Zuta lives, then, but is incredibly weak.</p><p>“Lord Agahnim did not linger?” I must ask. I knew he had taken to watching Hilda’s <em>esclavin</em> at all hours of the day, but I was unaware that he continued to observe the boys as well. I may owe Lord Bolson a debt.</p><p>“Not this time. He seemed to be distracted.” Rozel confirms my debt, and continues his report. “We showered, and spent some time in the baths before moving to dress. I…don’t remember what happened after that, but when I woke my hair was dry, and Kaya and Zuta were unconscious on the floor. I reached…” He chokes. “I reached, Grand Master, just like you taught us to, and…and there was <em>nothing there</em> to reach for.”</p><p>The sudden onslaught of weeping isn’t unexpected, and draws forth a fresh spate of my own tears in turn. Din’s Flaming Arms, he’s just a boy! He should <em>not</em> know that kind of crushing grief, that heartsick pain. No one should, but definitely not a <em>child</em>! The <em>esclavin</em> tradition is truly a blight on Hyrule’s so called <em>polite </em>society.</p><p>Even as I kneel carefully on the mess of blankets and towels to find some way to give the boy some sort of support and maybe a hug, Zuta stirs further.</p><p>“…’zel?”</p><p>“I’m here, Zuta. I’m still here.”</p><p>“…don’ go…” Having exhausted all of his strength for that simple exchange, Zuta’s hand falls back to the linens, limp once more. Rozel covers his face for a fresh bought of sobbing, too dehydrated to actually cry.</p><p>“I thought they were dead, too!” He wails, but takes Zuta’s hand in his own, using his forearm to hide his emotions from view since he cannot keep them contained, his control shattered like Eran’s hips. “Kaya still hasn’t woken up! Zuta keeps falling asleep!”</p><p>“Rozel, child…” I croon as best I can, years of keeping a tight rein on all infliction and emotion that could be found in my voice turning it hard and flat.</p><p>“I couldn’t just leave them here!” He sobs. “They need me! No one else understands! Why…why did this have to happen?!”</p><p>Why indeed.</p><p>“Kaya’s so cold…” He sniffles, and buries his face in the blanket covering all three of them. “Zuta got warmer when I got the blankets, but Kaya hasn’t.”</p><p>“Is he dead?” I still can’t See, and cannot bring myself to forcibly move either of the other two. It…would not be unlikely, and may be a mercy if he is, all things considered.</p><p>“<em>I won’t let him go</em>.” The twelve year old boy snarls, the entirety of his aetheric being flaring to solidify in one steady purpose, burning through his grief. “He wants to, but he’s my <em>konlega</em>! He <em>can’t</em>! I <em>won’t</em> allow it!”</p><p>Zuta’s fingers twitch as Rozel buries his fingers in the pale honey strands of Kaya’s unbound hair, and his <em>saithr</em> strands weave into the warp of Rozel’s casting, draining them both…but the smallest of them gains enough strength that I can see him breathe. Before he falls over, Rozel drinks down the full magic jug at my hip and bends to share some of that artificial power with Zuta.</p><p>Kaya is too far gone to consciously link into a collective weaving, and cannot be helped in that way. If Rozel keeps casting Mipha’s Grace, and pulling on Zuta to do it, they will all be lost. It’s <em>already</em> taken more than Zuta has to give – rendering him unconscious once again – and Rozel’s aetheric channels are strained and damaged. I can See that much as clearly as the gaping void in Kaya’s rejuvenated patterns.</p><p>As though someone has punched through an expertly woven tapestry with a blunted, red-hot claw hammer. Pulling and tearing and puncturing and <em>burning</em> where it hasn’t been destroyed utterly. Yet he breathes.</p><p>Good Lady, I think I may be ill.</p><p>“Lady Impa…” Rozel rasps, swaying. “<em>Emor</em>. Please….” He begs. “…<em>help me.</em>”</p><p>“I will.” I promise him, though it probably won’t be in the way he hopes. No one can raise the dead. Sustain a mind within a vessel, yes. Animate a corpse, yes. Trap a soul, yes. But…once any <em>more</em> than those aspects have been separated from the whole, it…doesn’t end well to try.</p><p>Kaya is unravelling before my eyes, and taking the other two with him. Somehow, Rozel has managed to entangle his own Bonding with Kaya’s, and it’s a snarled mess, but it’s working as intended. Combining all three into a shared whole. All they know, all they’ve ever known. All that they’ve been <em>taught</em>. Leaving me to choose. Do I lose <em>all three</em>, or sacrifice one and hope I don’t destroy the other two in the process?</p><p><em>Damn</em> the <em>esclavin</em> tradition to the furthest corner of the Dark Realm and back!</p><p>Rozel slumps over, dazed, <em>dying, </em>as all <em>three</em> are dying, and I make my choice. There has been enough death. I need to try.</p><p>I just hope I can live with myself, after.</p><p>The connection he’s maintaining between himself and Zuta – made freely and in complete consent – is the weakest of the interlocked tethering. Not because of what it is, but because the strength of a freely made and deeply desired connection lets the purest energy through, and neither of them thought to reinforce it. Tenuous, because that is all that was needed. A double handful of strands, no more. Cutting it clear makes them both cry out, but by the time I’ve moved Zuta out of range of physical contact and into his own little pile of bedding and towels, his color is better and he’s breathing easier.</p><p>Without Zuta’s magic to draw on and supplement his own, Rozel is unconscious, still trying to support two lives with less than the energy needed to maintain one. Kaya has stopped breathing.</p><p>There’s no time for delicacy or precision. Not if I want…</p><p>Cutting through the mass of entangled Bonds, I can’t stop the tears that fall hot and free down my face as Kaya’s heart stutters and Rozel moans as his echoes that pain. Zuta…Zuta will be fine where he is for now.</p><p>I pick Rozel’s small, limp body up in my arms and run.</p><p>The changing of the guard means that I have two sets of security to go to, and more than enough hands to take Rozel to the gates to wait for the ambulance that is called before I have to ask.</p><p>“Kaya? Zuta?” The captain just off-duty asks me. I can’t remember his name, only that he was one of the original squadron chosen for the current King. Of course he would know the names of the boys training to serve the next.</p><p>“Zuta, yes, but…” Swallowing around the lump in my throat, schooling my expression, I shake my head, deny my tears, and end up leading them back to the locker room expecting to find an unconscious, broken boy and a cooling corpse. Forgetting that the Queen insisted they learn basic first-aid as well as the softer skills needed to support a monarch.</p><p>Zuta meets us at the door, dragging Kaya by the ankles, the bruising and burns on the slightly older, slightly smaller boy’s chest showing where Zuta obviously used Urbosa’s Fury to re-start his heart. He’s breathing. Alive…and in so much pain nothing else registers, eyes blank and vacant, colors barely active.</p><p>I stay by his side as he is loaded in the second ambulance. Zuta to follow in a third.</p><p>Kaya rouses enough by the time we reach Castletown City Hospital to start using the horribly maimed tatters of his Bond to reach out and find a connection – any connection – with anyone he can. I don’t notice until it’s nearly too late. Too focused on tracking as much of Rozel and Zuta as I can remotely through their Gossip Stones to pay attention to the half-conscious and fully delirious prodigy laying still and quiet on a stretcher until one of the E.M.T.s goes from securing the intravenous needle with medical tape to removing his glove and caressing one of the fresh, red, blistering burns on Kaya’s chest.</p><p>The motion is unsanitary and unnecessary and unusual and has to be <em>further </em>hurting Kaya – if his dazed mind can even account for physical agony right now – and alerts me enough to pay attention to what is happening right in front of me.</p><p>“Oh fuck!” The other E.M.T. yelps as I draw one of my daggers, but she needn’t worry. The blade was never intended to cut flesh…only aether. The Sheik were never intended for the general public…never intended to last beyond the Hyrulean Civil War over one and a half thousand years ago. I don’t know what will happen to Kaya…but I cannot allow the general public to know how easy it is to Bind one of us to a Hylian master. There wouldn’t be a Sheikah with their own life left within a generation.</p><p>There were so few of us capable of having children after the Shrine Monks took to their living tombs...and fewer still after the last Calamity.</p><p>Perhaps Veran is correct…but I cannot condone even one Hylian death for what is only a possibility. Not while change is still possible, and not before there is <em>no</em> other choice. Against all expectation, Kaya lives…and has gone from despairingly seeking death to only desperately seeking relief from the pain of his shattered Bond and <em>saithr </em>strands.</p><p>Bonding to a random E.M.T. – no matter how noble the profession or how good a person he may be – will not give him that relief, only an easing of the pain, like running a burn under cool water. No…he needs to heal, if that is even possible. I’ve never seen such extensive damage…not without accompanying death. It’s as though he experienced everything Eran did, and then walked through a forest fire and into a lightning storm.</p><p>I slice through the two <em>saithr</em> strands he’s meshed into the E.M.T.’s own weaving and watch them unravel before my eyes. See how those strands retreat and writhe amidst the burning ember edges and jagged holes. Goddesses, where he finds the strength to still draw breath is beyond me…and then it isn’t. The shimmer of every shade of blue understanding that can be gifted to mortal ken – from ice to indigo and back – flickers and glows at the end of each damaged strand, holding him steady.</p><p>Nayru. Perhaps She heard me, after all.</p><p>I start to pray…but don’t dare take his hand or try to transfer any of my own Force to supplement his own. Not while he is still trying desperately to Bond. So I pray, and wish, and weep.</p><p>“He’s stabilizing.” The woman nods to her partner, who holds his hand out for my knife, carved with our most sacred Runes for purity and excision. Having been severed twice by her edge, Kaya’s strands hesitate and draw back. Stop reaching, and wait. Instead of using the energy to seek, it turns inward, shining green and glorious.</p><p>Farore.</p><p>The holes in his weaving begin – not to mend – but to align…and he does stabilize. Enough so that by the time he’s been placed in a solitary room normally used for highly contagious patients, my sense returns. I am sworn to the Sheikah-who-fight as Veran is sworn to the Sheikah-who-farm and Cheri to the Sheikah-who-study, and as much as Kaya is a son I could only dream to call my own, he is simply one of many. All of whom depend on me to lead them forward…and he is a danger to them, and to all who come in contact with him, Sheikah or not.</p><p>He must be isolated, completely and utterly, until he can manage his shredded Bond well enough to resist using it. The Shadow Daggers will help him until then, but after…everything on the Palace grounds will only reopen his aetheric, mental, and emotional wounds. So he cannot return, or have any contact with those he knew, and must be monitored so as to not present a danger to the public until they have mended on their own.</p><p>A terrible fate for anyone, let alone a child.</p><p>Of course, should he heal, he <em>might</em> be able to still serve in a position according to his potential…but that “if” is…well…not impossible. Just nearly so.</p><p>“Grand Master Impa? We have a few questions.” The triage nurse bows.</p><p>“Keep all unnecessary personnel away from him, see that his attendants are aether-numb, and I will answer what I can.” He doesn’t have the strength left to activate the magic inherent in the Goddess’ Chosen people in order to Bond with them…though that may change with the seething reds of Din’s influence joining Her sisters’ touch.</p><p>“Yes, Grand Master.” The nurse agrees, and tapes a precautions sign to the door before leading me away from poor, pitiable Kaya for what I think is the last time.</p><p>I’m not his mother. Not any kind of blood relative. Nothing more than a supervisor. I have no legal means of tracking him. Through the consequences of my own decisions, yes…but I think of him nearly every day, and the many ways I failed to protect them all.</p><p>I go home, cap the whiskey, swallow against the nausea the sight of it calls up, and put it away. Get through the following day. Cry myself to sleep that night, avoiding the Gossip all together.</p><p>One of my daggers is returned within a week, stained with aether, the others lost as if they were simple blades and not precious heirlooms of ages past. I bury it next to the boy who would have been his <em>domine</em>, and don’t quite manage to avoid weeping.</p><p>Four years later I hear his voice in the Gossip, bearing questionable vocabulary but valid points, and manage to finish the conversation before the tears come.</p><p>It is a decade before I can see him in…very little flesh. Absolutely no clothing. Shattered, and somehow stronger and more beautiful for it, like the finest kintsugi, and we weep together.</p><p>I can’t bring myself to touch the whiskey ever again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ten thousand apologies! I was unable to finish chapter 6 of Above Hoarded Gold before surgery, and post-surgery brain is unable to do a think, so have a chapter here as relevant but ultimately filler story time!<br/>Hope to have ch 6 up to posting quality in time for next scheduled update.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Not Date Night (Kahti)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Kahti meets Kaya for the first time, and it's lust at first sight.<br/>It's not a date.</p>
<p>Posted May 07/2021 because I couldn't finish the next chapter of Above Hoarded Gold on time.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Meet-cute, if meet-cute was possible for either of these two at this point in either of their respective lives. So, uh, meet-cute-horny-angst-character exposition with a side of porn-with-sub-sub-sub-plot? Is that a thing? It should be a thing. Let's call it a thing. Yeah.</p>
<p>TW: survival sex work, references to the use of in-universe version of conversion therapy, kink so under-negotiated that it may as well be non-negotiated, first-time sex<br/>CW: religious discrimination, culture-shock, abuse survivor POV, unwanted flirting, rough (100% consensual) sex, homophobia, internalized homophobia, racism, drug use, xenophobia, none of this is dealt with or resolved, dead dove - do not eat, anal sex, oral sex, language</p>
<p>As always, if I missed something you feel should be warned for, please tell me and I'll fix it!</p>
<p>Kahti Skolkeeta POV (Captain Keeta, Majora's Mask)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Nah, man, I gotta jet. Last bus leaves in five.” Bremor says, marking my last opportunity to grab another drink on someone else’s tab. I certainly wouldn’t buy one for myself, given my financial situation after picking up my last Bean bag and a sack of rice. Even if I could afford it, well…the Ikana Local Bar and Pub may not serve the best drinks in Castletown, and the food would kill nine generations of rats, but that’s not why anyone pays the cover.</p>
<p>“I’ll come with. Need some fresh air.” Doyle grunts, pulling out his pack of Lucky Lights cigarettes and momentarily making my beer fogged brain break. I don’t think I’ll ever really understand Modern Hyrulean. I struggle enough with the textbook stuff, let alone the slang. It’s just…so overly complicated, with subtle rhythms and different tones I can’t distinguish, and for a moment I long for the familiarity of Terminian inflections. Just a moment.</p>
<p>Never going back home, though. Not as long as going home means being publically stoned for something that I can’t help, can’t change, can’t hide, and can’t deny. There, my own ma calls me an abomination, tempted into donning Majora’s Mask. Here, they just call it violet, and go about their own business. Or take the new kid out to a place that caters to both being broke and wanting to fuck men on the first Freeday night after they found out.</p>
<p>It’s…nice of them, I think, and not at all what I expected.</p>
<p>I’m not dead, for one. I’m not the only Sheikah here, for another. Not that there are many, and most of them number among the more world weary house courtesans that I can see. Among the staff, only five, all of them relegated to guarding either doorways or intoxicants, and they will not be distracted by what I could offer them while they are on the clock. Or off it, for that matter. Refugee student artist doesn’t anagram into financially secure prospect no matter what language I’m speaking.</p>
<p>Not that I have a hope of purchasing so much as the attention of a licensed professional when I can’t even gather the coin for the cover. Maybe one day, if my art gains enough of a following before I die, I’d be capable of paying enough for one of the local cam boys to give a private show. A night with a registered courtesan, though… simply impossible.</p>
<p>Their heavily groomed, stylized nudity and the erotic performances every hour on the hour don’t help me keep my hands off my wallet, only my shame at the contents – and the lack thereof – does. I don’t even try to keep my other hand off my cock, and the packaged wet wipes are free even if the reason to need them isn’t.</p>
<p>But the house merchandise is not all that is for sale, here. There are something that Brac calls ‘working boys’ too, which I definitely appreciate, even if I can’t afford their services. Each Incarnation knows if I had any extra money I wouldn’t be spending it on the warm, flat beer that seems so popular, the questionable bottles of milk, the strings of dried Rushshrooms, the Loveya pills, or the Magic Beans in neat little baggies. Maybe the slim Human with the striking green eyes and mesh tank-top showing off pierced nipples. Or the lean half-Hylian with the strategically torn jeans and “Vaccines Cause Adults” cutoff t-shirt.</p>
<p>I have no interest in the woman with a penis, or either of the larger, more muscle-bound prostitutes that are advertising their receptivity of both coin and cock, let alone the ones offering. The one with the bad teeth is spending every rupee he earns almost as soon as he earns it, and the other doesn’t want to be here at all. I can’t contemplate how any of his customers enjoy the reluctant service, and – with my broken speech, desire to mount rather than be mounted, and obviously Terminian-Sheikah looks – stand no chance of finding a partner for casual sex tonight <em>without</em> paying for it, somehow.</p>
<p>Just like every other night, so at least that’s nothing new.</p>
<p>“I am to be go, addition.” I decide, and wave off further entreaties to remain. No alcohol, food, drugs, or sex, and constant temptation towards all four – and fully inebriated company – means I have no reason to stay and accidentally stain my pants under the table with my own hand. If the last bus truly does leave in five minutes, I should be on it. It’s a relatively warm evening – technically morning – out, but it’s still winter, and I have no desire to walk any further than I have to. Not with a cold bed in a colder basement waiting for me.</p>
<p>It’s definitely too cold out for the thin Coastal-Sheikah man at the bus stop to be wearing only a long sleeved t-shirt and puffy vest against the chill. A…very pretty man. Almost <em>too</em> pretty to be real, with thick, traditionally wrapped hair and enough carefully regulated magic to set the entire block alight, not just Doyle’s cigarette. My classmate inhales, blowing a ring of smoke into the air, and leans against the metal doorpost of the plexiglass bus shelter as I approach.</p>
<p>“You know what I like in a spook like you?” He drawls, leaning forward towards the warmly colored, mage-jeweled, and well-bound man and blocking the bus-stop’s doorway entirely, leaving me to stand in the chill wind and watch as he attempts to flirt with someone I wouldn’t mind flirting with myself. Another Sheikah is less likely to be frightened of me than anyone else I’d risk flirting with, which makes flirting much easier, though that may just be the alcohol talking.</p>
<p>The beauty of his face and ruthless control of his gift makes flirting almost a compulsion. One that, after hours spent denying myself in the bar, I’m willing to give in to. The fact that the miasma of at least three…no, four, definitely four…other men fogs the air every time he breathes doesn’t hurt, either. This lovely man is no stranger to pleasuring others, and has very pretty lips.</p>
<p>“Not a clue, don’t really care.” Pretty is a tenor, and has been here long enough that my admittedly un-Hylian ears can’t detect a difference in their accents. Mine’s as obvious as Doyle’s aggressive arousal and the smaller man’s indifferent response to it.</p>
<p>“My dick.” That…is an awful way to proposition anyone. I can do better without trying…and I will try. I will. As soon as my prayers to Farore for just a smattering of Her gifts are answered.</p>
<p>“Not interested.” The sinfully pretty Sheikah says as his colors snap into a cohesive whole, rolling his eyes and taking a step back into the crowd…which parts so they don’t accidentally touch him. Some things, it seems, are universal, even if public harlotry is legal, here.</p>
<p>I imagine the regulation would make it easier for the state to profit off of it. Harder to hide the bodies, at least.</p>
<p>“How much would it take for you to <em>be</em> interested?” The inquiry is accompanied by a hand that’s shrugged off almost before it lands.</p>
<p>“Not. Interested. Fuck off.”</p>
<p>“I know you’re working.” Doyle insists.</p>
<p>“Not right now I’m not.” He returns, grumpy, but Doyle doesn’t take the unsubtle hints of body-language, spoken language, and building magic as a clue.</p>
<p>“What time do you usually get off, then?” He asks, pressing further forward and backing the only other Sheikah here against the cracked plexiglass frame, breathing another ring of smoke directly in his face. “Can I watch?”</p>
<p>The question and his posture and the pretty whore’s gathered magic all conspire to have Farore answer my plea for courage, and I find I can move.</p>
<p>“Is nice night.” I say as loudly as I can, and push Doyle out of the way so I can stand in the bus shelter as well, not so surprisingly between him and the shorter Sheikah man, using my size to my advantage. If there is one thing I have learned living in Hyrule, it is that we must look after each other. Another thing that I can’t help, change, hide, or deny, even though it will not kill me outright.</p>
<p>“Kahti man, what are you doing? You’re wrecking my game.” Doyle bemoans, and draws in another lung full of toxins.</p>
<p>“I am to be wait for bus.” Sometimes, having people know you don’t really speak the local language helps. I can look as dumb as I know I sound. From the way the pretty, pretty man stops gathering his magic, I think he appreciates my intervention…and that he knows it was an intervention. Doyle has no time to argue, either, or continue to bother the other Sheikah, because the bright lights of the 108 turn the corner almost before I finish my sentence. “Here bus come.”</p>
<p>“Last chance for you to come to my place and do the things I’m going to tell everyone we did anyway, gorgeous.” Doyle leers as the line shuffles around us.</p>
<p>“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to pass.” The skinny man shakes his head, and waits for everyone to file past so he can board last and choose where to stand. Pausing on the first step he turns to look at me, tilting his head. “You coming?”</p>
<p>“Later, yes. To a think of you, <em>aleh’um</em>.” I grin, and he visibly starts. “Other of hand, I am having not the money for touch.” I admit. My handful of shards won’t even get me a condom from the vending machines…though I do have my student bus pass, to access transit almost anywhere in the city. He looks me up and down…then steps off the bus with a smirk.</p>
<p>“No need to just think of me. You any good with that thing?” He asks, shifting to move with a liquid grace of a predator in motion, pointing at my crotch with a flat-fingered open palm. As unthreatening as a magic wielder can get. I can see the stiff nubs of his nipples through his shirt and the open vest, though I’m not certain now that it’s because of the cold. The temperature seems to have no bearing on my ability to maintain an erection, which has to be visible to anyone that cares to look.</p>
<p>He’s looking. I’m looking back. Majora’s Wrath, he’s so pretty. How is he real?</p>
<p>What’s wrong with him, that he is here? Beyond the broken parts of his patterns, that is. I’ve seen worse in people of much higher stations than I could ever aspire to. He should be serving kings and princes, not whatever low-born sinner that can scrape together enough coin for a good meal out. My Sight tells me that much, and at the same time tells me that he is real, and the sparks of expectation and low-simmer of arousal says he’s waiting for me to answer the question.</p>
<p>“I do not know.” I shrug, knowing that for some reason, honesty is the best policy with him. “I have dream only to be have a man in my bed.” The less said about my attempts with women, the better, though my parents were willing to pay for that. Repeatedly. And the priest’s services with a thunder-wand when it didn’t work.</p>
<p>Not that the thunder-wand worked, either.</p>
<p>“It must be your lucky night, then, because you’ve just won a free ticket to the fuck factory in pound town, and I get off at penetration station.” He purrs, and the bus pulls away, the driver probably as eager to go home as her passengers. I understand the individual words, but nothing beyond the first concept he presented. I’m smart enough to figure out the rest, though, especially when he presses himself against me, all whipcord, sinew, and smelling heavily of sex.</p>
<p>“We are to be offend Most Radiant Hylia, or…ah…” What did Brac call it? Oh, yes. ”…uphill garden?” I ask, more than eager enough for either, even though in my imagination I always dreamt it would be with someone much more…rough. He’s really very pretty. My attempts at local colloquialism has him tilting his head even as his hand finds the front of my pants and rubs. May the Fierce Deity strike me down where I stand! I would die happy as long as he keeps doing precisely <em>that</em>.</p>
<p>“<em>Ya.</em>” He breathes, the pronunciation of that one word telling me I don’t have to keep attempting to fumble my way through the dances of cultural expectations, sex, and words.</p>
<p>Thank the Three.</p>
<p>“<em>You speak Middle Hyrulean?</em>” I ask, in that tongue, just to make sure.</p>
<p>“<em>I do. Are you more comfortable with it?” </em>He asks, and shivers.</p>
<p>“<em>Yes, please.” </em>I nearly weep in relief. Would, if it weren’t for the gorgeous stranger in my arms trying at once to arouse me and stay warm, and succeeding at the first.</p>
<p>“<em>Thought so.</em>” He grins. “<em>That euphemism is called a “</em>blow job<em>” here. Uncreative and inaccurate though it is.”</em></p>
<p>
  <em>"Inaccurate?”</em>
</p>
<p>“<em>I’d be sucking, licking, and swallowing more than blowing.” </em>He tells me, and I feel my face heat at the thought of him on his knees, sucking, licking, and swallowing. “<em>I need to be fucked more, though. My last client was the only one with the </em>rupees<em> for that, and he finished before I could really start to enjoy it.</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>I don’t have any money at all</em>.” I protest, knowing what happens to both thieves and rapists in this strange country, and not wanting this evening to end either of those ways. Bad enough to risk condemnation to an eternity in the Dark Realm for what I <em>do</em> want, and I want to take this as far as he will allow, but not a step further than that.</p>
<p>“<em>I made enough for tonight</em>.” He shrugs. “<em>Now I want to get fucked for the sake of fucking.</em>”</p>
<p>From the way his colors shift, he means it. I…hadn’t thought that far ahead, only knowing what I wanted. Of course, in Her Wisdom Nayru would make it desirable for everyone involved, as Din gives passion, and as Farore saw fit to make it uh…fit. It’s just like my guidance counsellor said before she was fired and had to move to another district.</p>
<p>I’m…not an abomination for desiring him. Not as long as he desires me in return.</p>
<p>“<em>So, are you going to fuck me or not?</em>” He asks. “<em>Lube’s not going to last all night.</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>Here</em>?” How would that even be possible?</p>
<p>“<em>Too cold, and public nudity charges.</em>” He shakes his head, his braid brushing his thighs and making me look at his thighs. Think about spreading them open and moving between them.</p>
<p>Needing to be between them.</p>
<p>“<em>My place is just a few blocks from here.” </em>I hear myself offer this random stranger whose name I don’t know and may just be trying to rob me blind, if not for the sincerity of his colors. “<em>I don’t have a bed, but there’s a mattress, and…”</em></p>
<p><em>"Good enough.</em>” He nods briskly, and pulls away from my side. “<em>Lead the way</em>.” Shivers.</p>
<p>“<em>Here</em>.” I offer, and drape my arm over his shoulders so my open jacket covers at least part of his back. Shock makes him tense, but that melts away so quickly I think I may have imagined it. Then he burrows close to my side, and I know I’m not imagining the small smile that graces his remarkably pretty face.</p>
<p>We walk in silence together in the proximity of a romantic couple as I lead him towards my home and fantasize with a little more urgency than the working boys instilled as they advertised their services. I didn’t see him behind the glass or walking the floor, nor is there any sign of a licenced manager or unlicensed pimp that I would think is in charge of him. The further we get from the bar, the more certain I am that he doesn’t have one, but I’d rather not risk it.</p>
<p>“<em>Will there be anyone chasing after me for this, later?</em>” I murmur as I turn us onto my street.</p>
<p>“<em>Just one.” </em>His response gives me pause<em>. “If you fuck me the way I’m hoping you will, I may give you my number for a repeat performance.”</em></p>
<p><em>"And how is that, exactly?</em>” There are only three more houses left until the walkway to my basement suite, and if it were entirely up to me, there would only be the distance to my bed and the time it takes to get rid of his pants before I can try my best. I really hope he doesn’t want to play at being lovers, because I’m not sure I can wait that long. There’s something about his proximity and the shattered parts of his weaving that takes my desire and turns it from intense to frantic.</p>
<p>“<em>Hard. Very hard. Rough.”</em> He groans<em>. “I’ve got a condom that needs to be included, but anything else at this point – including your mattress – is optional.”</em></p>
<p>How…intriguing. And a relief, considering his profession. He <em>looks</em> clean, but all it takes is one customer exchanging more than money for that not to be the case.</p>
<p>My face heats at the thought of sharing him with another man, at the same time, like in some of the illicit movies I have watched, and that fantasy keeps me hard and wanting the rest of the way home.</p>
<p>“<em>Turn here, go in the back door.” </em>I instruct, and dig for my keys.</p>
<p>“<em>That’s your job.” </em>He purrs, grinning. Bright gold and green sparks. Amused, and anticipatory.</p>
<p>"<em>Huh?”</em> Maybe that last beer was a mistake, as getting my keys out of my pocket is a lot more difficult than it should be. He’s so pretty when he smiles. Pretty enough that I don’t care if he’s laughing at me, as long as he’s willing stay right where he is. Maybe inside. It’s warmer inside.</p>
<p>I want to be inside. My home. Him. Both.</p>
<p>“<em>Going in my back door</em>.” That grin – and hearing it in my first language – makes the implications understandable to me, whereas when Bremor said the same in Modern after class I didn’t get it. Sliding my hand from his shoulder to his ass and squeezing one cheek, I run my fingers over his crack and use my chest to turn him down the walkway, thankful that my landlord let me use his shovel to clear it after the last snowfall. He glides. I follow. Catch up easily. Press him against the wall. Dare to reach, lift, spread, and press myself against him. Can’t keep the harsh thrust of my hips from driving my cock against him despite the layers of clothing between us.</p>
<p>“<em>And isn’t it your job to open up and let me in?”</em> I ask, and am pleased when he arches into my touch.</p>
<p>“<em>Yeah, it is.” </em>He moans, and I can’t resist pressing him more firmly against the siding and rutting against him as I fumble with the lock and my wards. It takes forever for the door to swing open, and even longer to get down the stairs and unlock the door to my suite. He toes off his shoes and slides inside before I have my first boot off, and I end up tearing the laces on the second in my rush to follow.</p>
<p>There are only three rooms – a combined living area and kitchen, a washroom and toilet in the same space, and the bedroom. I catch sight of motion in the last, and get to see the smooth skin of his back as he folds his shirt and sets it aside. My breath catches in my throat and I want to weep at the sheer slender beauty of his frame, wishing for the first time that my artistic talents lay in portraiture instead of landscapes. But they don’t, and even if they did, <em>drawing</em> him is not my top priority at the moment.</p>
<p>“Condom?” I ask, and receive the small foil packet with trembling hands. Extra lubricant, ribbed for her pleasure, used for his. For the first time since I moved in, the basement seems warm. I drop my jacket at the same time as he drops his pants, and my mouth waters with wanting to taste his skin. The smooth ridge of a hip, the softness of his concave belly, the faint rise of his buttocks, and the broad firmness of his shoulder, all at once. Feel the heat, the hardness, of him in my hands.</p>
<p>“<em>Put on your safety gear, and put me to work.</em>” He teases over his shoulders, eyes alight and smoldering as he first kneels, then lays prone on my mattress. Face down. Hair to the side. Legs spread. Hips rising as an effective enticement. My own pants leave a warm patch on my thighs with how quickly I pull them off and straddle him, my fingers first unable to tear open the condom package, then nearly fumbling the contents in my haste.</p>
<p>“<em>Goddesses, you’re beautiful</em>.” I can’t help but moan as I find my grip on the slick latex, pinch the tip, and roll it down my shaft, nearly snagging the hem of my shirt in the process. “<em>So, so, pretty.</em>” I praise, adjust my angle, and push into him.</p>
<p>“Oh <em>fuck</em>!” He shouts something I don’t process immediately. He’s loud. Tight. Warm. Good. So good. I move, and experience true bliss.</p>
<p>A steady, rhythmic grunting helps me focus long enough to grasp his narrow waist in both hands, and pull him back onto me more firmly. Spread my knees further apart for better balance, and push in until I disappear inside of him entirely. Grind us together as he gasps, scratching at my ass to pull me in with his whole body.</p>
<p>It stings, the small pain a distraction of the hot clench of his body. I don’t like it, and grab his hands, pinning them over his head. It shifts the angle of my penetrations, making him impossibly tighter.</p>
<p>Sweet, sweet Hylia, it’s <em>so good</em>. Better than anything I ever imagined with the help of my hand. He’s lucky he wanted hard, because I can’t do anything else, my hips snapping back and forth with bruising force as he wails beneath me, taking each brutal thrust and pushing back for more. Begging for me to go faster. Harder. Deeper. Loudly, though. Too loudly.</p>
<p>Grabbing my sad, threadbare, and thin pillow, I attempt to muffle his cries with it and find myself enjoying the way he gasps and twitches when I do, making no effort whatsoever to escape or protest, pushing his hips up into mine with renewed vigor.  Laying across his back makes him shudder with each gasping breath, taken in each time I back off to let him breathe, adjust my thrusts, or pull him back onto the mattress that I keep driving him off of. If I could just…</p>
<p>Dropping the pillow, grabbing him by the hips, I tug until he gets his knees under him and can adjust <em>himself</em> against the weight behind my movement, and that’s even <em>better.</em> I don’t need to slow down or pause entirely just to get his ass back where I want it, and the slight change of angle has my eyes rolling back in my head as I pant and simply try to process how fantastic this feels.</p>
<p>I can see how it would lead an otherwise righteous man to sin, and sin again. And again. And again, even on the High Holy Days. With such an enthusiastic partner, it doesn’t <em>feel</em> like a sin at all. It feels incredible. <em>Wonderful</em>. Not at all evil. Instead, I would call it sacred…but I am no kind of priest, to speak on what is divine. Just a poor student grasping at forbidden pleasure, and hanging on to his hips with both hands as I drive us both towards ecstasy.</p>
<p>“Oh, Goddesses. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck! Oh, oh! Yes! Shit! Fuck me!” He seems to have no qualms about telling the world of our trespasses, loudly enough that the mechanic upstairs stomps on the floor in complaint. I don’t want to be kicked out for a noise violation, even if the sex is more than everything I’ve ever dreamed of, and so I stop. Pull out of him, the condom glistening in the dark.</p>
<p>“<em>You’re too loud</em>.” I gasp, rolling him over, but unable to resist hauling him close enough that I can grab behind his knees and spread his legs. Grind my cock against his.</p>
<p>“<em>Then shut me up.” </em>He groans, wiggling closer still. “<em>Ram your cock down my throat, or wrap your hands around my neck and choke me.”</em></p>
<p>They’re both good ideas. I think I’ll try them in the order he suggested.</p>
<p>His braided and bound hair makes for a decent handhold for me to use, and aside from the first time I get past his hard palate and into his throat, he doesn’t gag or jerk or tense up on my cock or in my hands. His moist slurping is still loud, but the noise is not as loud as when his mouth was free. It’s…different than being in his ass, the slick glide easy and sweet, the sight of his pretty face and pretty lips wrapping around my dick hot as fuck…but not as good as a fuck, and I want to <em>fuck</em>.</p>
<p>Still, his mouth is worth more than the thirty to fifty rupees that’s the standard fee for offending….for a <em>blow job </em>from the working boys at the bar. So much more. I want more.</p>
<p>Pulling his head off my cock by his hair leaves him panting, tongue out, a thread of saliva connecting the two until I grab his thigh and spin him back around so I can slide back into him, nearly overbalancing him and knocking him off the mattress onto the floor. Not that it’s a significant distance to fall, but he does twist to catch himself and lift his leg for balance, making it easier for me to continue the limb’s trajectory and hook his ankle on my shoulder. Pull his hips back towards me, resting them on my thighs. This works just as well, and is more in line with my fantasies of my first time bedding a man.</p>
<p>“Oh, fuck!” The extra moisture from his mouth makes penetrating him again so much smoother, and he’s flexible enough that I can keep sliding forward, hands tracing his lean sides and surprisingly strong lats, and wrap my fingers around his throat even as I slam my hips against his, my balls brushing against his butt with every slick and easy thrust.</p>
<p>His hands rise to <em>keep</em> mine in place on his neck as I fuck him, and he was right. It keeps him somewhat quieter. All I can hear is the wet slap of skin on skin, my own harsh panting, the squeaking springs, soft shuff of the mattress against the floor, and an occasional ragged gasp when my fingers slip.</p>
<p>He turns his head from me when I try to kiss him, though, twisting beneath me to avoid the contact, his extreme distaste clear, and I can take a hint. No romance. Got it.</p>
<p>That’d be a lot easier if I don’t have to look at his face, staring him in the eye and buried to the hilt. I mean…how much more intimate can two people get? We’re nearly the same age, both clearly Sheikah, both clearly violet, both poor, both hungry, lonely, and doing our best despite all the rest. Plus, he’s so, so, so pretty. So hot. Wet. Bliss. Fuck.</p>
<p>Flipping him over onto his belly helps me control myself. Laying my weight across his back so he can’t move helps hold him still. He helpfully lifts his hips. I use my right hand to help me remount, wrap my left arm around his neck, and ride him for all he’s worth. Not that I know how much he charges, but…worth every shard. More.</p>
<p>“Yessssss.” He hisses beneath me, his colors going nearly opaque in their intensity, flashing all one tone and hue in pleased satisfaction. Twitching as he stains my mattress. Clenching. Oh, yes… I close my eyes and enjoy his enjoyment, then seek my own. Even if it is inconsiderate. Rude, to continue before my partner recovers from the oversensitivity of singing nerves. I can’t bring myself to care, he simply feels too good.</p>
<p>After, when I’m tired, sweaty, sticky, and still throbbing with aftershocks of the best orgasm of my life, I take the time to appreciate him a little bit more. I have no idea what the standard etiquette is at this point, but surely, <em>surely</em>, soft touches and clean-up are acceptable.</p>
<p>Still no kissing, but he does let me tangle our legs together and wrap my arm around his waist. I don’t miss the jaw-splitting yawn, or the way his eyes water with it.</p>
<p>“<em>Sleep if you want</em>.” I encourage. “<em>I intend to.”</em></p>
<p><em>"Hmm.</em>” He hums, and presses his back more firmly against my chest. “<em>You sure?</em>”</p>
<p>“<em>It gets cold at night, sometimes. I’d appreciate the warmth.”</em> It’s true, and for the second time tonight, my honesty nets me better company than all the posturing and bragging I’ve ever done combined.</p>
<p>“<em>Warm is nice.” </em>He agrees, and from what I can tell, drops off into dreams almost immediately. I’m…craving a quick hit from my stash to relax enough to sleep, but have no desire to leave his side to get it. I don’t <em>need</em> it, not tonight, and eventually fall asleep on my own.</p>
<p>The lack of warmth in the morning is what wakes me, and a quick search of my home proves that I am indeed alone, and nothing has been stolen…though he has torn out one of the pages of my Introduction to Art History notebook and borrowed one of my pens to leave his name and a phone number.</p>
<p>Kaya Lurelin. The dichotomy of his ancient given name combined with the modern location for his family name tells me less about his heritage than I’d like. Not that we could have children, or that his coastal coloring gives me pause, but because my heritage ensures that I’m one of the few Sheikah in Hyrule that can actually trace my family lines back more than two or three generations, and I would like to help others connect with what family I can.</p>
<p>Losing my own simply for my sexuality is a scar on my heart that will tug every time it beats for the rest of my life. I can no more change it than I can change the course the stars are to run, and now, I <em>truly</em> cannot deny it in any way. Not if I want to keep my own gifts, paltry though they are in comparison. I enjoyed…Kaya…far too much to be anything but an abomination against the Goddesses. No. Violet.</p>
<p>I’m…violet. I’m <em>violet.</em> And infatuated.</p>
<p>And a coward.</p>
<p>It’s nearly two weeks before I can bring myself to call him. Thank him. Arrange to meet him again. I don’t mean to drag him to the <em>samloghaus </em>that are discretely placed in most public areas across Hyrule as the very first thing we do, but after – when he’s looking up at me like that, sweaty and warm in my arms, he just laughs. Says he doesn’t mind. Was expecting it. Had a good time. Wouldn’t mind doing it again.</p>
<p>Later, after sharing a paper cone of sautéed and salted nuts, I pull him into an alleyway to do it again. I have to physically cover his mouth with both of my hands – his braced against the wall as he rocks back against me, my pants around my ankles and his caught at his knees – to keep us from being discovered. It’s a secluded spot, but just because it’s secluded doesn’t mean it’s not also semi-public.</p>
<p>My last condom means clean-up afterward is easy, though I stay inside of him until we’re both capable of breathing normally again. His pleasure decorates the wall I shoved him against and has dripped down his thighs. Beautiful. I chase after each salty burst with my tongue, bite the tender skin to hear him whimper, feel him tremble under my hands – exhausted and over-stimulated – as I do.</p>
<p>Beautiful. Inspiring. I…need to draw him, almost as desperately as I needed to fuck him, and no one will be purchasing this portrait or grading me on it, so I let myself draw as he poses for me.</p>
<p>I tear out the page from my sketchbook when I’m done, and give it to him to commemorate the evening. He smiles, and it’s so beautiful I feel my breath catch in my throat. Lean forward to kiss him.</p>
<p>He turns away. Again.</p>
<p>Every time we meet after that, he turns away. I thought he wasn’t ready for romance. That he was happy with the way things were between us. That my efforts – my <em>feelings </em>– would, eventually, be returned.</p>
<p>It isn’t until years later, when I see him with Lord Korokshire, that I realize happiness is both relative and, for us, mutually exclusive.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is why I can't have nice things...yet. Nice things are coming for Sheik and Link, eventually, but part of the reason it's a mostly-happy-ish ending planned out for The Calamity is Calling ties into side characters and collective trauma, which...can't be all rainbows and sunshine and sparkly glitter unicorns with anthropomorphic singing flowers in their manes. (Of course, that's also why I generally find side-characters much more interesting than classic protagonists. They're like onions. Hairy, stinky, the best part is something we don't see, and cutting them makes you cry. Oh yeah, and uh...ogres? Layers! They have layers. Yes.)</p>
<p>IRL crap, skip if you DGAF<br/>I'm 1852 words (aside from plot points and notes) into writing chapter 07 of Above Hoarded Gold, with detailed plot notes through chapter 10. It is coming.<br/>I promise, I only FEEL like I'm dying.<br/>Arm has been postponed indefinitely, as there was a small issue that means I need at least 2 more eye surgeries (had two emergency ones already), and I got my first vaccine this morning and had a reaction to it, so...it's been fun, ya'll, but you're getting filler this time and probably next update day as well.<br/>Apologies. m(_._)m</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Not A Good Night (Kahti)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A month or so after Not Date Night.<br/>Kahti contemplates his relationship choice.<br/>Kaya has a bad time.<br/>Neither of them deal with it well.<br/>Short chapter is short, but full of turmoil and angst, so it feels longer than it actually is.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Homophobia. Unrecognized sub-drop. Survival Sex Work. Prostitution. Depression. P.T.S.D. Recreational drug use. Self-medication. Unhealthy relationships. Poor communication. Under and non-negotiated kink. Emotional Abuse.</p>
<p>CW: Unresolved Anger and Jealousy. Slut-shaming. Internalized-homophobia. Apostasy. Issues related to and arising from non-consensual sex acts. Allusions to some of Kaya’s backstory from the rest of The Calamity is Calling. More hints of Kahti’s backstory. Dead Dove, Do Not Eat.</p>
<p>If I missed anything, please tell me and I will update!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>If it were possible to blink hard enough to reset my operating system from Middle to Modern Hyrulean, I’m pretty sure that this still wouldn’t make sense. He’s been exceptionally clear that our relationship is what Brac calls <em>friends with benefits</em>, which he helpfully explained meant people who like each other that also sometimes have sex. How that isn’t the same as dating, I don’t know, except that he’s allergic to romance and the very idea of committed relationships. Fickle and disloyal, leaving me to drink vinegar like I am savoring the finest wine.</p>
<p>It is more than I ever truly hoped to have, and so I take what I can get. When it comes to Kaya, to friends, to work, to Hyrule in general, I take what I can get. It’s always more than I’m allowed in the first place, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop reaching, but…Goddesses. Now? Really?</p>
<p>“<em>What?</em>” I ask – in Middle Hyrulean because it’s almost three in the morning on a Hyday and he usually goes home to shower and maybe eat something after working all night, unless he’s feeling particularly whiny and I was <em>sleeping</em> so what the fuck is he doing here on my doorstep – as he flinches in on himself and refuses to meet my eyes.</p>
<p>Fierce Deity, give me strength.</p>
<p>He’s lucky he’s so pretty.</p>
<p>“<em>Please, Kahti. Let me in?</em>” He asks again, this time in the same, and the motion sensor light at the side of the house goes on. “<em><span class="u">Please</span></em>.” He’s scared, and stinks of sweat, cheap booze, and cheaper disinfectant, but mostly like sex. Not his. I know what his sex smells like, both mingled with mine and alone. This is nothing but the men who have enjoyed his company transitionally, as faithless and fickle as all the ones before. “<em>I don’t care what you want in return, but please, </em>please<em> let me in. They’ve been following me all night, and tried to spike my drink, and are carrying more cash than I’ve seen anyone hold at the bar ever, so please…”</em></p>
<p>Fuck, what a bitch. He could have called. Could have left. Could have set them all on fire. Could have stabbed one of them in a kidney with either of the knives I know he carries, really, but instead he brings trouble that <em>isn’t</em> my problem right to my fucking door at the ass end of a shit evening.</p>
<p>He’s so pretty. And I know he fucks. Really well. Went out to get fucked in the first place. His mascara and the last traces of lip gloss would tell me that much even if I didn’t know he was an unlicensed whore at heart. He made that exceptionally clear, and all I wanted was to share a meal together for the Carnival. Not even on the Carnival Days, but just so I could…</p>
<p>…pretend that someone cared more about the rites of my homeland than I actually do. Not celebrating on the traditional day or in the traditional way was far enough removed to not make me feel sick and guilty and shamed about not really believing, anymore. I burned through my weekly bag of Beans in two days, just to get up the nerve to ask him, and he shot me down without even looking. I know I’ve been angry with him since, but it’s getting bad. I jerked off three times tonight just to get to sleep, and it wasn’t enough, and now here he is.</p>
<p>Begging.</p>
<p>It’s a good look on him. Not that he has a bad look, really. He’s too pretty for that, and he’s here, and I still want to hurt him for it. Physically, in retaliation for hurts that don’t actually bleed, but still ache, and still leave scars. Not that I’ve been gentle with him.</p>
<p>We’re not lovers, after all.</p>
<p>And yet, he’s here.</p>
<p>If I play this right, his gratitude will get me so much ass. Later. Goddesses, later, when my urge to ruin him is something he’ll be able to walk away from with only a limp and some superficial bruising.</p>
<p>“Hey, babe!” I say a little louder than the hour calls for, making the approaching shadow stop before I can actually see who’s casting it. “How was work?” Tugging on his arm gets him darting inside faster than he can say <em>Thank you, Kahti, I appreciate you getting out of bed to deal with my self-destructive bullshit</em>, and I close the door firmly, making sure to latch each lock and secure every ward I have before heading back down the stairs. The last step’s a hidden ankle-breaker, nearly a hand-span deeper than the rest, and only practice keeps me from stumbling on it while dodging his shoes.</p>
<p>I know tonight was bad because he’s in my bed, naked and asking for it and not a word of complaint about my open and empty Bean bag before I shut the door to my basement suite. It not be the first time he’s come to me for a fuck after his customers have left him hanging, but that’s not what’s happening tonight. I may not be as inherently Blessed as he is, but I can still See when I want to.</p>
<p>Usually I don’t want to. Actively try to avoid it, in fact. I – unlike Kaya – dislike all kinds of pain. Seeing people lying, Seeing them hate, Seeing every petty emotion that crosses their hearts is <em>painful</em>, and why I started taking Magic Beans in the first place. It’s also difficult to avoid Seeing it when I was fast asleep and dreaming only a few minutes ago. Three minutes ago, according to my phone’s display.</p>
<p>Saints and Sages, it’s too late – early? – for this shit.</p>
<p>He’s not here because he’s horny and unsatisfied and knows that normally I’d fuck him as often as he lets me on his back. I could deal with that…well, tell him to go to the bathroom and deal with it himself because I’m fucking tired. Instead, from the blank, wide eyes and the way he’s shaking, I can tell he’s scared without needing to look any deeper. Really, really scared. Scared enough that he came to my place on the off-chance I might be home and willing to let him in instead of going back to his place, wrapping himself in a blanket, and locking the doors. Engaging all his wards, which are much better than anything I could put up with a week’s time, a month to study, and better food than I’ve had in years. My place is closer, and has one thing that his place doesn’t, aside from recreational forms of stress relief.</p>
<p>Boundaries. His have been broken so many times that he doesn’t bother trying to put them up any more. I <em>know </em>he only has a couple ways to have some control over his own body; his hair, which I don’t touch, and this. If he initiates – if he asks to be fucked <em>first</em> – he’s in control of who and when and how and where he’s fucked, just not if. It makes me sad that he doesn’t even try to say no, and angry that his no isn’t enough, and jealous of every man that hasn’t had to work half as hard as I have but has gotten twice as much.</p>
<p>I’m also pissed off and tired in general, so I wait for him to ask me take control and lay him out. Fuck him so hard he can’t remember his own name, let alone all the reasons he has to be ashamed. He needs to actually ask me for it, this time, otherwise he can fuck himself and sleep on the floor in the common room. This is his problem, not mine. He’s the one who chose to be a harlot instead of…of starving.</p>
<p>Eugh. Fine.</p>
<p>Just because I get it doesn’t make it any less annoying. Just because it’s annoying doesn’t mean I’m going to say no if he does manage to ask. I’m trying to <em>avoid</em> pain, here. Mine. I can rail him through his, but I <em>will</em> insist that he initiates.</p>
<p>“<em>Please, Kahti. Do whatever you want, I don’t care. Just h…hurt me, please. Make it hurt. I need it, please. Please…” </em></p>
<p>He trusts me enough to ask me for it, and I wish I couldn’t see how much that costs him. Wish I didn’t like it so much that he doesn’t even consider that I might want him to fuck off so I can go back to sleep. Wish he wasn’t so good at it. And he’s <em>good</em> at it. <em>Really</em> good. Being able to read and respond to the smallest changes in a person’s desires before they notice – what makes their nerves light up in pleasure – makes him an excellent whore. Sorry, an excellent courtesan. I’m not paying for his attentions. I’m also not his lover. I’m a friend with benefits. Tonight he needs a friend…and probably a nap, a couple meals, and a regular appointment schedule with a therapist.</p>
<p>…Fierce Deity, though, that sounds fantastic. And as unrealistic as my parent’s white-picket-fence dreams for me, before they found out I was an abomination instead of a son.</p>
<p>Fuck, I need sleep if I’m still getting all maudlin with four Beans in my system. I’ll see if I can deal with his mess of fear and pain and numb self-loathing in the morning, maybe get my dick wet, and then I can kick him out after the strangers hunting him are gone, no matter what else happens tonight.</p>
<p>“<em>Roll over</em>.” I grumble at him, and he obeys, turning onto his back instead of his knees and spreading his legs so I can see that he came here <em>immediately</em> after his last customer got off of him. Obeys instantly and without question, even though he hates being fucked face-to-face. Says it’s the least physically pleasurable, and he has to watch his own objectifying dehumanization as it happens. A really bad night, then. “<em>On</em> <em>your side, face the wall</em>.” Clarifying what I meant, I wait until he’s arranged himself before crawling onto the mattress behind him and throwing my blanket over his side. “<em>Go to sleep, asshole</em>.”</p>
<p>With my arm over his side and my weight behind him, it would take more effort than it’s worth for him to argue. Especially when I start to fall back asleep immediately, deliberately ignoring the way his breath catches and he trembles in my arms. Not saying anything, because that would be admitting a weakness and none of us can afford the vulnerability any more than we can afford a knife in the gut. By the Breach of Demise, they’re practically the same thing.</p>
<p>I know, though. I also know he sleeps better with someone next to him, and I’m too tired to care that I’m being used just as much as he was, though for drastically different purposes.</p>
<p>I’m not surprised to wake up alone as my third alarm beeps more and more insistently at me to get up and start another day. It’s the only one that keeps buzzing after twenty-minutes unless I manually shut it off, which means I slept through the first two, which…also not surprising, given how tired I was and how often I’ve been waking up at night. The scent of coffee brewing is a surprise, as are the small sounds and flickers of shadow as he moves around in my space. It has to be him, my wards would have knocked anyone else out by now. I don’t exactly have a lot of friends, and even fewer people I’d be willing to play host for.</p>
<p>Last night must have been <em>really</em> bad, for him to linger past dawn. My blanket is warm, the sheets slightly damp to the touch. I hope that means he actually slept, at least a little bit, after he was done doing whatever that was last night. Without him beside me, I’m getting cold, and the coffee smells fantastic. The oatmeal tastes fantastic. Just enough oat milk and sweetener, with a handful of frozen blueberries – completely thawed – sprinkled on top.</p>
<p>Kaya looks like shit. His tan skin is paler than normal, dry, and he definitely needs to check his eye-bags since they’re way too large for carry-on. With the scruff of his beard just starting to scratch, mascara smeared, and his cheekbones showing a little too starkly, I make sure he eats exactly half of the breakfast he prepared for me instead of the none-of-it he intended, even though I need to nag like a granny and remind him every few minutes that he needs to feed himself, because I’m not going to spoon feed him breakfast. We’re not lovers. He’s a grown ass adult, and I shouldn’t have to. I’m already exhausted, but if I don’t, he’s sure as fuck not going to do it.</p>
<p>That’s not my responsibility. We’re not even dating, after all.</p>
<p>The moment my coffee is gone he rises to do the dishes, leaving his half-empty mug on the table. Another habit that he sinks into far too frequently, this instant compliance and degrading subservience. I don’t miss the way he wiggles a little on the way to the sink. Glances over his shoulder. Tosses his hair. Apparently we’re doing that, too. Not that I mind this part of it, especially after waking up to the scent of him and sex on my sheets adding to my regular morning condition.</p>
<p>I follow him to the sink with my mug and add it to the pile of dishes and cookware waiting to be cleaned before pulling down his pants and bending him over the counter. A few careful drops of vegetable oil sees him slick enough for me to pull myself out of my boxers and push in. He pushes back with a low moan that’s some appreciation for my size, but mostly relief.</p>
<p>Back to not speaking, then. Fine. Whatever. Since I’m not his lover, it’s not my business. I give him the fuck he came for, and take the fuck I need in order to cum.</p>
<p>I <em>know</em> last night was bad as I tug his waistband back in place, because he doesn’t complain about the load I left deep inside him or even flinch at the nausea that plagues him from it. Just drops to his knees to suck me clean, then turns back to the dishes and washes them all. I strip off my oily and semen stained boxers and go to toss them in the wash with the rest of this weeks’ laundry.</p>
<p>He’s gone by the time I get back.  With the frustration – <em>inspiration</em> – of what we could have if he’d only let us have it, I finish a fourth landscape to try and sell between classes during the coming week. Three a week keeps me fed and sheltered, four adds a bag of Beans, and six means I could have him stay for breakfast more often than just this once. It’s been a rough month, though, so I may call him up for a dumpster diving date, instead. I’ll just have to wait, and hope, and see.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Bad News! I won't be putting the next part of Kahti's POV up two weeks from now, and it leaves off at a very depressing and low place. Oops.<br/>Good News! Despite this last interval being an absolute IRL living hell, the next chapter of Above Hoarded Gold is progressing nicely and will be ready for posting next update day!<br/>Great News! The next two chapters of Above Hoarded Gold are outlined and working well with the universe and the overall themes and the plot that I started laying out as soon as I figured out that Of Cake and Calamity wasn't going to be a one-shot.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>